Façade
by MusicLunatic13
Summary: Molly Hooper is trying to keep up her happy front, but she's breaking inside. And she won't let anyone else see. Can Sherlock put his skills to something other than murders, or will he fail to understand human nature once again? There may be character death/violence.
1. Broken Glass

Molly Hooper groaned into her pillow as the annoying drone of her alarm signified another day ahead. Not that she really wanted to get up. She was just digging herself into a hole, and no one seemed to be noticing. Her dad had just died, and it felt like a piece of her had been missing ever since. She was hopelessly in love with none other than Sherlock Holmes, who only considered her as a lab assistant. If that, even. And she spent more time with dead bodies than living people. Starting to see why she felt like she was spiraling downwards? No matter how she felt, she had to get up. Go to work. Get this day over with. She rolled over and turned off the alarm, her feet hitting the cold, wood floor. She trudged to the bathroom and got in the shower, letting the water drip down her back. Wishing she could wash her regrets away. But if such a thing were to exist, no one would ever learn. Just commit the same mistakes over and over, knowing they could erase the consequences. Shaking her head, she wondered why her thoughts had such a tendency to wander. Maybe that was part of her problem, she was always over thinking things. She hopped out of the shower and quickly got dressed, parting her hair to the side and applying a bright shade of lip gloss. Just how Sherlock liked it. It was the little things, sometimes. She decided she could skip breakfast, and just make do with some coffee. She got her travel mug, grabbed her bag, and bolted out the door. A few minutes later, she was sitting in a cab on her way to work. "It's just another day, Molly," she whispered to herself, "Just another day."

Molly sipped her coffee while walking, thoughts of Sherlock and the Morgue dancing through her head. She smiled politely at everyone she passed, even though it felt hollow to her. Fake. But no one noticed, they just smiled back. Fake, too? Who knows. Who cares? There was a better question. There she was, wandering again. She got to the lab and pursed her lips. There were some samples for her to identify, which she didn't mind. It was better than minimum wage, serving greasy food to greasy people. She smiled a bit to herself, a genuine smile, and it felt good. Like maybe everything would be okay. Until she heard the door open behind her open that is, followed by footsteps.  
"Ah, Molly, good morning. Why haven't you eaten breakfast?" said the voice that left her speechless: Sherlock.  
"Hello, Sherlock," she said smiling, "how did you know that?"  
"Obvious," he said, cocking his head slightly to the side, "I just observed."  
"Of course," she said, more to herself than to the consulting detective in front of her, "any particular reason that you've showed up this morning?"  
"Oh. Yes, that. I need to examine something but didn't have the proper materials at home. Can I use the lab for a bit?"  
"Sure, of course. Why wouldn't you be able to? It's all yours, please, take your time," Molly babbled, feeling herself blush.  
"Right then. Okay."  
A few minutes of silence passed, not awkward, just silence. Molly stuck to her business and Sherlock stuck to his, like it should've been. Why would he make small talk? He was Sherlock Holmes, only consulting detective in the world. There was no point in him associating with her. She was probably just another puppet to him in his game of life, where he always seemed in control and to know anything. She gripped the glass a little too tightly and it shattered, a few drops of blood appearing on her finger. She winced a little, not at the pain but more at the sight of her own blood pooling on her finger. Sherlock remained oblivious, not shockingly.  
"I'll be right back," she said to Sherlock, but he was in another world.  
She ran to the bathroom, although she wasn't sure why. It didn't hurt that bad, and it took her a minute to realize what she was trying to hide from herself. It hurt her more than any physical pain to be in the same room as Sherlock, knowing he didn't care about her any more than he had to. She sunk to the bathroom floor, tears pooling in her eyes. Her finger forgotten, she stared at herself in the mirror. Tried to smile, and although it seemed real she could also see how fake it was. How is it people can appear so happy no matter what they feel inside? The stupid mirror was made of glass, too. She wondered if breaking that mirror would hurt as much as Sherlock could without even trying. She punched it with everything inside her, tears streaming down her face. She punched for the anger she felt, the sadness, the desperation that no one seemed to acknowledge. Because they didn't want to be bothered by her. She stared back at her reflection, now distorted, and cried harder. What had she become? She needed to stop this. She was Molly Hooper, and no one could see her like this. She was the happy, carefree girl that was sweet to everyone and never had a bad day. But she could no longer see that girl. Blood now dripped onto the floor, but the pain was numb and didn't much matter to her at the moment. The broken glass was helping her to see better than she ever had. 


	2. Observations

Sherlock was just about finishing up with his lab work for the day. It wasn't easy, over analyzing and over thinking everything. It was exhausting, and people didn't even appreciate it. They found it annoying, which annoyed Sherlock. Most people annoyed Sherlock, though. It seemed to him like they didn't even try thinking sometimes. Or it must be really boring in their small, normal minds. That performed small, simple tasks. Speaking of, he could really use some coffee. He was far too busy, Molly would have to get it.  
"Molly, I could really use a coffee right now. Make it black, two sugars?"  
No response. That was odd. He looked up, noticing for the first time Molly wasn't there. He scanned the room quickly, noticing a few pieces of glass where she had been working.  
"Must have been an accident, she'll be back soon enough," Sherlock muttered to himself.  
He waited. 5 minutes passed, then 10. Nothing but the sound of Sherlock's steady breathing. As it came closer to 15 minutes, he felt something in his stomach. Sadness? No, he had no reason to be. Exhaustion? Not that either, this was easy work. Fear? About what, though? Slightly puzzled, Sherlock pondered this strange feeling. He didn't feel much, because he didn't have much of a social life. Sometimes he was happy, like when he got assigned a triple homicide case. Or disappointed, when one of these cases had such an obvious answer a kindergartener could've solved it. Mostly he was lonely, though. He decided to run down to the lady's room to see if Molly was alright. Glass couldn't do that much damage, could it?

Molly dried her eyes with the cheap paper towels, which just made them itchy and red. Blinking back fresh tears, she set to work fixing herself up. Painting on the mask, that concealed her feelings. She shook out her hair and just put it in a simple ponytail, and put on some clear lipgloss. She dusted off her coat, and remembered that her hand was bloody a moment too late. Blood smeared on her white lab coat, not a lot, but enough. She groaned, it seemed as if this day couldn't get any worse. She rinsed her hand under the water, watching the water turn red and spin down the drain. She examined the mirror, admiring her handiwork. Maybe there was something wrong with her, but the surface appeared to be fine. And that's what people care the most about, right? Her hand only stung slightly, she was lucky she didn't need stitches. At least, she didn't think she did. The pain still felt oddly numb, was it possible for something to hurt so bad it didn't hurt at all? That reminded her of Sherlock. She threw her head back, knowing she couldn't hide in this little bathroom forever. No matter how much she wanted to. One last look at the broken mirror. She couldn't tell how bad she looked, and maybe that was a good thing. She wasn't sure she wanted to see herself at the moment. She sighed, and told herself she'd count to three. Three numbers, and she'd step outside.  
One.  
She took a few tentative steps towards the door.  
Two.  
She took her good hand and grabbed the door handle.  
Three.  
She pushed open the door and pretended she was also pushing away all her sadness, all her worries. The door was the only thing that moved, though. She stepped out, took no more than two steps, and walked straight into Sherlock.  
"Oh! Sorry Sherlock, didn't see you there. What are you doing outside of the women's bathroom, anyways?"  
"Are you okay?"  
The words stopped her cold. There were so many ways to answer that question right now. Yes, I'm fine: the expected the answer. Or, no, I'm not: the answer she wanted to say more than anything. But she knew that being honest wasn't an option, it usually wasn't. She wondered why people even bothered asking, when they knew they'd get the same answer back.  
"Yup! Just fine. Why do you ask?"  
"Your hair's different," he said, as if that was an answer, "and your lips are a different color. And, is that blood on your coat?  
"Yes, I did change my hair and lipgloss," Molly said patiently, "and yeah, accidentally wiped it on my lab coat."  
Lying. Through. Her. Teeth. To the man she loved.  
"Oh, of course" Sherlock said, not wanting to press the matter. "Now can you get me a coffee? Black, two sugars."  
And before Molly could object, he was off. She wondered if he actually cared, or if he was merely observing. You could never really tell with him. But then again, you couldn't be sure with anyone, he just made it more obvious.


	3. Innocence

Molly stood awkwardly in line at the one working coffee machine, the other two had been broken for as long as she could remember. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, becoming frustrated. Sherlock didn't seem to realize she wasn't there to be his assistant, doing mindless tasks because he had "more important" things to be dealing with. But she couldn't stay mad, she loved him too much. The half smile he gave when he figured out a case, the look in his eye when he figured out a person's life story by the color of their shirt. He was just adorable, and even though most people were convinced he didn't have a heart, she spent a lot of time thinking about where she'd fit in his. If there's was even room. What had he said? Black, two sugars? Three? She really needed to focus. She guessed two, and started carrying it back to the lab, careful not to spill a drop. She successfully made it back without spilling any, pushing the door open with her foot. Her hand had begun to sting again, and she noticed there was and blood on his cup. She sighed, and hoped he wouldn't notice, but of course he would. He was Sherlock Holmes, and nothing seemed to get past him. Besides for what she wanted him to know more than anything. But if course that's how it worked.  
"Took you long enough," said the genius, "put it right there, would you?"  
"Please.." Molly said under her breath.  
"Please what?"  
"Nothing, never mind."  
"Alright."

And with that, the eventful part of her day was over. The seconds stretched into minutes, minutes to hours, and before she knew it she was in a cab headed home. It was pretty dark out, dark clouds were rolling in and a steady drizzle had begun. It looked as if the sky was crying. Molly stared out the window, knowing Sherlock was not that far away from her. He was looking at this same rain, observing these same clouds. The lights of the city twinkled, the rain drops raced down the window, and she tuned everything out except the street drum of rain on the roof. Where had she gone wrong? She did all her work, was nice to everyone, has a steady job. She just couldn't figure out where things had taken a turn for the worse. The last thing she wanted to do was sort through her bad memories, but if she truly wanted to answer the questions she asked herself, it was the only way.

Molly was 12. Her grandma had brought her to the hospital, to see her father. He had cancer, and it looked like he was losing his battle. Although that's never what she talked about with him. She went inside, and her dad was hooked up to multiple tubes, and machines around the room kept beeping and pinging. Not that she understood that, then. She ran in to see her dad, who instantly smiled when he saw his little girl. They talked for what felt like hours, about school and her friends and anything they could think of, really. Soon enough dinner time was approaching, and her grandma said it was time to leave. Molly said her goodbyes, and they left. They were half way down the hall when Molly realized she had left her coat back in the room. She went to go get it, running back to the room, but pausing before entering. She just started at her dad. Was he...crying? Was it possible? The man that had fought away the monsters under her bed, who could do anything, wasn't perfect. And all it took was that tear for her 12 year old world to come tumbling down. Looking back on it, she saw how her innocence had been robbed away in a matter of seconds.

Sherlock Holmes was taking a cab back to the flat. John was out of town, visiting some family member or something, which left him a quiet flat. Just him and his skull. His mind was racing with results from the lab he had done today, he wasn't aware of his surroundings in the least. His thoughts held on Molly, for a moment. There had been something odd he'd noticed...oh! There had been blood on his coffee cup. He wondered if he'd cut herself on the glass. Had she told him? He didn't remember. He didn't have room in his head for such trivial things. Like the solar system, for example. His train of thought zoomed on, but no matter how hard he tried not to, he still felt a nagging sensation in the back of his head.


	4. Lab Accidents

"Stop here," Molly said to the cabbie, suddenly feeling exhausted. Or maybe she was just noticing.  
"Alright, have a nice night ma'am."  
"You too."  
Molly walked up the two flights of stairs leading to her cozy flat, and quickly shut the door behind her. She slid to the ground, sitting in a ball. When she was with people, she smiled. She laughed. She was care free, seemingly. But when she was alone, and there was no one to put a show on for, things changed. Dramatically so. The mask came off, the tears began to fall. And she couldn't make them stop, no matter what she did or how hard she tried. She got off the floor, deciding instead to collapse on the bed. She buried her face in her pillow and screamed. Screamed until her throat was raw, raw like the pain she felt. She needed a distraction, from the pain building up inside her. The scream continued on, powered by her regrets, her sorrows, her past. She screamed until she had no voice left, it hurt to breathe. Hoarse, dry coughs made their way out of her lips as a result of her continuous sobbing. She cried herself to sleep that night, just like the last few weeks.

It was the next day. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and Molly felt slightly better. Her throat was still burning, but at least she hadn't lost her voice. She skipped breakfast, she hadn't been eating much of anything lately, and went straight to work. She smiled politely at everyone she passed, even though it wasn't genuine. Just an average morning. She got into the lab and heard her stomach growl, but convinced herself she didn't need to eat. Not now. She started to work in the lab, her mind elsewhere, when Sherlock came in again. Which was strange, he never came in two days in a row. He had to have a good reason.  
"Sherlock? Something wrong?"  
"What? Um.." Sherlock said, puzzled. For the first time since Molly had known him, he was at a loss for words.  
"Tell me, Sherlock. Please? What's wrong?"  
"Nothing. Why do you assume there is? Just have some follow ups to do from yesterday's lab."  
Molly sighed and continued on with her work, as Sherlock did with his. They worked in silence, the only break was Sherlock's random muttering about a certain element or an unusual reaction that took place. Molly watched his face while he worked, he was really quite amazing. He was so lost in his work, so dedicated, and all the reasons why she loved him came rushing towards her at once. She blushed, so happy that he couldn't read minds. Although it wouldn't surprise her. He seemed capable of anything, everything, under those sparkling eyes she could stare into for hours. She loved him with everything inside her, even though sometimes she felt hollow inside she loved him with everything she had. But then came the tragic, cliche twist: he would never love her back. And she knew it. She just mentally added it to the list of things that had gone wrong in her life. All of a sudden she rushed back to reality, and noticed he was staring back at her. And they just held each other's gazes, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. He smiled that small, boyish smile that gave her butterflies inside. It was movie perfect. But the moment was gone in seconds, he lost himself in his work once again. Probably not giving the moment another thought.  
"Are you okay?"  
The question chilled her, made her blood run cold. And before she could think, the words were out of her mouth.  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
It felt like he was reading her like a case almost. Gathering evidence to reach a conclusion.  
"I'm not one of your cases Sherlock. Please, don't treat me like one."  
The words coming out of her mouth were not her own. It was like her filter had disappeared.  
"Sorry? What do you mean, exactly?" He had a quizzical look on his face, and it looked cute on him. She didn't get to see it that often.  
"I swear Sherlock, you're like a machine. Think with your heart, for once in your life!"  
Hurt flashed across his face.  
"Sherlock, I'm-"  
But it was too late. He left without a word, leaving Molly feeling terrible. Looking back, she had just wanted him to hurt as much as she did. But she never realized it would hurt her just as much.

Molly jumped up, tears streaming down her face. It was 3am. She sighed, relieved and frustrated at the same time. Sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare?


End file.
